The first time I experienced mania, I was completely unaware. I had been acquainted with depression, spending countless nights engulfed by sorrow, sadness, and tears. But mania? That was a term I had heard, yet knew nothing about. Then it struck me.
My initial manic episode overtook me. It started innocently enough with an overwhelming surge of joy and energy. I was on an incredible high, where colors appeared more vibrant, my body felt weightless, and the atmosphere around me buzzed with electricity.
Ideas flowed through me at an astonishing pace, and I began to write incessantly. The words came faster than I could type, and I felt both inspired and creative, as if I had finally found my muse. I envisioned writing a book titled “Superwoman Unmasked” and impulsively decided to drop out of school. My advisor urged me to reconsider, but I was too consumed by my drive; I had a story to tell and a burning passion to express.
Shaking with excitement and motivation, I quickly amassed tens of thousands of words. They were chaotic and nonsensical, a reflection of my spiraling thoughts. Yet, in that moment, I believed I was a genius. I felt invincible, which is a common symptom of mania, and I kept pushing forward. I even impulsively thought of starting my own literary magazine.
I embraced this euphoric state fully, mixing hard work with wild revelry. I drank, danced, and became the person I always wanted to be: charming, outgoing, and filled with joy. But that initial bliss was short-lived.
As my mood shifted, so did my behavior. Irritability and anger set in. I started drinking excessively and sleeping even less. My focus shifted from creative pursuits to reckless choices; I became a stripper, adopting the name Candy, or occasionally, Pink. My romantic escapades took on a wild edge, as my then-boyfriend and I engaged in intimate acts in public and unexpected places—from playgrounds to behind buildings.
Despite the chaos, I couldn’t stop. I felt like I was racing at breakneck speed toward an inevitable crash. And crash I did. I resorted to self-harm, taking a blade to my wrist, not realizing the severity of my actions at the time.
There’s a widespread misconception about mania that many, including myself, share: that it’s merely a state of exhilaration and productivity. While it can be, mania can also manifest as irritability, impulsive behavior, and a dangerous disregard for one’s well-being. It took me 14 years and multiple episodes to grasp the true risks involved (I wasn’t diagnosed with bipolar disorder until I was 33, well over a decade after my first encounter with mania).
Even now, I sometimes long for those manic highs—not for the chaos, but for the burst of creativity they brought. However, I recognize that going off my medication would be playing a perilous game, one that affects not just me but my family—my husband and my daughter—my wonderfully imperfect life.
Consequently, I take my antidepressants and antipsychotics, balancing my mood with a cocktail of medications. I hope for a decent day, a good day, where I can feel stable and okay.
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Summary
The author reflects on their journey through manic episodes, detailing the highs and the dangerous lows that followed. Realizing the risks involved took years, as did accepting the need for medication to maintain stability in their life.
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